Fifty Shades Trilogy 03 - Fifty Shades Freed

fucking furious.”
    “When you are calmer, we will talk about this.”
    “Don’t you hang up on me,” he hisses.
    “Good-bye, Christian.” I hang up and switch off Prescott’s phone.
    Holy shit. I don’t have long with Leila. Taking a deep breath, I reenter the meeting room. Both Leila and Prescott look up at me expectantly, and I hand Prescott her phone.
    “Where were we?” I ask Leila as I sit back down opposite her. Her eyes widen slightly.
    Yes. Apparently, I handle him, I want to say to her. But I don’t think she wants to hear that.
    Leila fiddles nervously with the ends of her hair. “First, I wanted to apologize,” she says softly.
    Oh . . .
    She glances up and registers my surprise. “Yes,” she says quickly. “And to thank you for not pressing charges. You know—for your car and in your apartment.”
    “I know you weren’t . . . um, well,” I murmur, reeling. I hadn’t expected an apology.
    “No, I wasn’t.”
    “You’re feeling better now?” I ask gently.
    “Much. Thank you.”
    “Does your doctor know you’re here?”
    She shakes her head.
    Oh.
    She looks suitably guilty. “I know I’ll have to deal with the fallout for this later. But I had to get some things, and I wanted to see Susi, and you, and . . . Mr. Grey.”
    “You want to see Christian?” My stomach free-falls to the floor. That’s why she’s here.
    “Yes. I wanted to ask you if that would be okay.”
    Holy fuck. I gape at her, and I want to tell her that it’s not okay. I don’t want her anywhere near my husband. Why is she here? To assess the opposition? To unsettle me? Or perhaps she needs this as some sort of closure?
    “Leila.” I flounder, exasperated. “It’s not up to me, it’s up to Christian. You’ll need to ask him. He doesn’t need my permission. He’s a grown man . . . most of the time.”
    She gazes at me for a fraction of a beat as if surprised by my reaction then laughs softly, nervously twiddling the end of her hair.
    “He’s repeatedly refused all my requests to see him,” she says quietly.
    Oh shit. I’m in more trouble than I thought.
    “Why is it so important for you to see him?” I ask gently.
    “To thank him. I’d be rotting in a stinking prison psychiatric facility if it wasn’t for him. I know that.” She glances down and runs her finger along the edge of the table. “I suffered a serious psychotic episode, and without Mr. Grey and John—Dr. Flynn . . .” She shrugs and gazes at me once more, her face full of gratitude.
    Once again I’m speechless. What does she expect me to say? Surely she should be saying these things to Christian, not me.
    “And for art school. I can’t thank him enough for that.”
    I knew it! Christian is funding her classes. I remain expressionless, tentatively exploring my feelings for this woman now that she’s confirmed my suspicions about Christian’s generosity. To my surprise, I feel no ill will toward her. It’s a revelation, and I’m glad she’s better. Now, hopefully, she can move on with her life and out of ours.
    “Are you missing classes right now?” I ask, because I’m interested.
    “Only two. I head home tomorrow.”
    Oh good. “What are your plans, while you’re here?”
    “Pick up my belongings from Susi, return to Hamden. Continue painting and learning. Mr. Grey already has a couple of my paintings.”
    What the hell! My stomach plunges into the basement once more. Are they hanging in my living room? I bridle at the thought.
    “What sort of painting do you do?”
    “Abstracts, mainly.”
    “I see.” My mind flits through the now-familiar paintings in the great room. Two by his ex-sub . . . possibly. Jeez.
    “Mrs. Grey, can I speak frankly?” she asks, completely oblivious to my warring emotions.
    “By all means,” I mutter, glancing at Prescott, who looks like she’s relaxed a little. Leila leans forward as if to impart a long-held secret.
    “I loved Geoff, my boyfriend who died earlier this year.” Her voice drops to a sad whisper.
    Holy shit, she’s getting personal.
    “I’m so sorry,” I mutter automatically, but she continues as if she hasn’t heard me.
    “I loved my husband . . . and one other,” she murmurs.
    “My husband.” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.
    “Yes.” She mouths the word.
    This is not news to me. When she lifts her brown eyes to mine, they are wide with conflicting emotions, and the overriding one seems to be